


The Lady in Black

by andromedacrawley



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29305668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedacrawley/pseuds/andromedacrawley
Summary: “If she were selfless, Mary would have set him free. He deserved to live a life far from here, maybe in Ireland or America, where despite his protest he might find someone worthier of him. Perhaps he could even stay in England, running for office or even a political reporter. Branson had a sharp mind, he was fully capable of such a thing... But Mary was selfish. And she would keep him here as long as she possibly could.“An AU starting in S4 where Mary grieves Matthew differently, Tom is still the chauffeur, and their friendship forms another way.
Relationships: Anna Bates & Mary Crawley, Anna Bates & Tom Branson, Anna Bates/John Bates, Cora Crawley & Mary Crawley, Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley, George Crawley & Mary Crawley, Mary Crawley & Robert Crawley, Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley (past), Sybil Crawley/Original Female Character(s) (offscreen), Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent, Tom Branson & Elsie Hughes, Tom Branson & George Crawley, Tom Branson & Jimmy Kent, Tom Branson & Mary Crawley, Tom Branson/Mary Crawley
Comments: 39
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! Welcome to the first chapter of my newest fic! I've been working on this one for some time, probably since last summer (where it was originally intended to be a one shot, then just a couple chapters, then ten, etc.), and I'm very excited to share it! There are still a few things that need to be worked out before I can start positing regularly, but until then, I hope you enjoy this first chapter! 
> 
> A few quick notes: In this AU, Tom is still the chauffeur in S4 and he and Sybil never had romantic interests in one another.

" _No one wants to kiss a girl in black."_

— _Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham_

* * *

**The Lady in Black**

**Chapter One**

After the first month, the days blurred together. Still, Mary kept count of how many days had passed since it happened— to her, the only significance to this particular day was that it was one hundred and seventy seven days since Matthew had left her. It was also, she supposed, George's one hundred and seventy seventh day alive, but she didn't focus on that too much. She kept track of the months, though that was more of a side effect of the events taking place around her. The auburn leaves signaled the close of September, whereas the presence of the great pine in the hall meant Christmas was coming to Downton.

It was only when confronted with it that Mary realized which particular day it was. Anna hadn't breathed a word of it to her (which was probably a good thing), not one word from her: " _Good morning, milady. Did you sleep well last night?_ " to Mary's: " _Tell Branson to bring the car 'round_."

In fact, it never registered to Mary until she met Edith on the stairwell.

"What's that?" she asked, noting something in her sister's hand. It was pink, something with lace along the edges, and it clearly made her happy, based on the wide smile on her face... even though Mary had a hard time imagining what there was to happy about.

"Nothing," said Edith hurriedly.

The pink, the lace, it was February... "Of course. It's Valentine's Day."

Edith had the decency to look ashamed. She probably was expecting Mary to bite her head off... and had she the energy, Mary might've. However, Mary chose not to remark on it; Edith could punish herself for her own thoughtlessness.

"When are you leaving for London?"

"I'm catching the ten o'clock," answered Edith, still eying Mary warily.

"Have fun," Mary told her flatly before descending the stairs again.

Branson was waiting for her outside, as he did each morning. Like clockwork, opened the door and offered her his hand so all she needed to do was climb in. "Thank you, Branson." It was impersonal, cool yet polite.

Branson climbed into the front seat. He didn't bother asking her where she wanted to be driven; he had stopped after roughly the first week when he realized the answer would be the same each time. They had a tacit agreement, the two of them, to remain silent the duration of the journey, aside from Mary's " _Thank you_ "s. Mary had no idea what Branson thought of their daily ritual; it suited her just fine and she had no desire to change it... though today might have to be an exception.

"I wondered if you might take me to the flower shop in the village first," she said. The man jumped slightly, his eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror as if to ascertain that Mary had been the one to speak... though she supposed she couldn't blame him. It was highly abnormal behavior from her.

"Of course, milady," replied Branson. He continued their drive into the village. Mary turned her head away from the window to prevent the rising sun from shining in her eyes. There was a terrible glare, even though several thick, grey clouds obscured most of the blue sky.

Mary strained her memory until she entered the flower shop. She returned to the car with a bouquet made up of red roses and carnations before Branson took her to their usual location.

Bouquet in hand, Mary walked the narrow path she knew so well. The gray stone was a new addition; Papa and Isobel had selected it when Mary was presumably still in a grief stricken daze. Now that roughly six months had came to pass, it had been placed over the grave she had visited daily.

_Matthew Reginald Crawley_

_Beloved son, husband, and father_

_1885-1921_

Mary sat the roses down beside the stone, the vibrant red petals contrasting against the subdued grey. "You bought me these last year. I thought I would return the favor." There was the lump in her throat, the same lump in her throat that had been there since she had begun making her daily sojourns to visit and speak with Matthew. "Happy Valentine's Day, my darling."

From there, Mary updated him on all the goings on at Downton in the past twenty four hours: progress on finding a replacement for Miss O'Brien ("We've a maid..." she gesticulated with one hand, trying to remember her name, "Emma or something like that, who is eager to be taken on, but I gather Mrs. Hughes is somewhat reluctant."), George's teething ("Nanny says she saw a tooth poking through yesterday."), and Edith's Valentine ("You'd have thought she would have more tact... I promise not to start an argument over it, but honestly! It's tasteless, it really is.").

When she had exhausted her options of things to talk to him about, Mary kissed her fingertips, letting them trace over his first name. She preferred this— before the stone, she had settled for blowing a kiss to mound of earth, which felt morbid and awkward in equal parts. "Goodbye, my darling. I shall see you tomorrow."

Branson saw her approaching and was already opening the door before Mary made it to the car. She climbed in with another perfunctory, "Thank you, Branson."

The drive back was silent. Mary looked out the window without really seeing anything and didn't return to herself until Branson was opening up the door in front of the house. Another "Thank you," as he helped her out of the vehicle, this time with the omission of his name to prevent excessive repetition, before she trudged back to the house.

* * *

The most tedious thing about being in mourning was being constantly babied. Mary would inquire after the affairs of the estate, to which Papa would shake his head, give her a pitying look that she hated, and gently say, "We can discuss it some other time. When you feel yourself again." Mary always had to hold her tongue to stop herself from telling him that she would never be herself again when half her soul had been smote from the world.

Mama was no better. She would tiptoe around topics she felt would send her daughter spiraling into grief. Whenever Matthew's name was uttered, the offender would receive a scorching glare from the lady of the house. Anytime mentioning the accident was unavoidable, Mama would always speak of euphemisms: " _Since the awful tragedy last summer_..." or " _The family has undergone a great loss recently_..." Mary felt it would be unhelpful for her to point out that it was superfluous to call it an _awful tragedy_ when all tragedies were awful by nature.

Their efforts to shelter her from the pain were just as bad as Edith and Rose's carelessness. Edith played Mama and Papa's game without any real commitment— as if refusing to mention Matthew or his untimely demise obliterated all her long phone calls and trips to London to meet her beau, Michael Gregson. She rubbed her newfound romance in Mary's face by playing coy to draw her attention to it instead of yanking her by the hair and forcing to observe it. All her actions were conducted in plain sight, though whenever Mary happened upon her sister simpering about how she was " _desperate_ " to meet up with him again in London so she could meet all his impressive literary friends, she would always turn pale and act as if she had been caught out in her own production of _Romeo and Juliet_.

Rose, however, was the one who pretended the least that she was trying spare Mary's feelings. "I so wish that _I_ had a Valentine," she sighed melodramatically after joining Mary, Mama, and Papa in the library. She had taken her place on the sofa, face in her hands and glum.

At once, Mary felt Mama and Papa's eyes fall to her. "Rose, I'm not sure if now is the best time to dwell on such things," Papa scolded, as if Mary wasn't there at all. As if she didn't exist.

"I quite agree," Mama piped up. "Besides— there are plenty of things more important for a young woman like yourself to be focussing on. Your Season is rapidly approaching—"

"Oh, but that's months away!" lamented Rose. "And anyway... I just wanted a card. I've never had anyone send me one before." She let out a sigh. "I would be happy with any sort of Valentine... even if it came from Daddy or someone..."

Mary could sympathize with Rose— she had once been that girl who dreamed of collecting Valentines. In fact, she had prided herself with the number of cards she received, lauding them over Edith like first prize ribbons. But Mary was a girl no longer and was growing weary of Rose's wingeing on and on. "I'm rather tired," she said, ignoring the dismayed looks that crossed both Mama and Papa's faces. "I think I will have a lie down."

"Of course," Mama said, injecting as much sympathy into her voice as humanly possible. "Take as long as you need."

Mary didn't need to hover outside the door to know Rose was receiving a tongue lashing for being so unthinking of Mary's plight. She could practically hear Mama's stern voice as she carried herself up the stairs: " _Need I remind you that while you go on and on about not receiving a single card, your cousin will never receive a Valentine from her beloved husband ever again?"_

Mary was glad of the silence of her room. Everyone in her family was just so... _loud_. Even when they didn't say a word, their actions were akin to shouting. The only people she found herself tolerating these days were Granny, Isobel (who had made herself scarce recently, but at least didn't put on performances for her sake), George, Anna, and Branson.

That wasn't to say George wasn't loud. In fact, for someone so small, he had a healthy pair of lungs on him. With teething came fits of crying from the pain of it all... Truthfully, Mary admired her son. Though he could not speak, he was unafraid of letting everyone know how he felt and he didn't have to worry about ridicule or judgement. She sometimes wished she could abandon her pride and do the same, before reminding herself that once she let it all out, she would have a hard time getting it back in where it belonged.

Mary suspected if Sybil were here, she would fall into the category of people who didn't make life difficult for her... but she wasn't here. She had sent Mary several letters that had gone unanswered. Her lack of response wasn't out of a lack of desire to communicate with her younger sister, only that there wasn't much to say. Things were roughly been the same for her since the last time they had been together at the funeral. The updates Mary provided to Matthew were easily covered in Mama's letters; anything else she disclosed to him was too personal for Mary to dream of telling a living soul.

Mary sank into her bed. Though she had made the excuse to steal away from her family, she genuinely was exhausted. Missing someone was a dreadfully tiring business. Sleep was merely the all too brief interlude between the fatiguing, timeless monotony of her days.

Mary toed her shoes off, letting them fall against the carpeted floor. If it weren't for the effort involved, she would have let her stockings join them. She wasn't sure when, but they had become a burdensome thing to wear— especially on rainy days, when they seemed to soak into the fabric, even when they hadn't come into direct contact with the precipitation.

Mary let her eyes close. It was the only way to pretend she was in a world happier than this one.

* * *

"Here's the little prince," cooed Nanny, handing George over to Mary. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly. She wasn't sure if anyone had told Nanny that it was the little moniker her and Matthew had used before selecting his name. It hurt to hear it. "If you peek into his mouth, you'll see the tooth I told you about."

Mary looked down at her son with a modicum of interest. "Thank you, Nanny. I'll ring if I need anything."

Once the door clicked shut, Mary carried him over to the rocking chair near the window. It had begun to rain; Edith had left for the station about half an hour ago. Mary wondered if her sister had made the train before it started... before wondering if she even cared.

George Matthew Reginald Crawley, on his one hundred and seventy seventh day of life, had a head of thick, brown hair atop his head, a small nose, and wide blue eyes. Mary wished there was more of Matthew in his features— she had said as much to Isobel during one of her rare visits, who had informed Mary that Matthew's hair had lightened with age and that George's present hair color rather resembled his at the start. Still, Mary couldn't help but worry that too much of her was in him.

Mary gazed outside, watching the raindrops race each other down the windowpane. George was quiet this afternoon, content to simply watch his mother. Considering they only spent an hour together each day, he might have been trying not to impede the short time he was allowed with her by crying or fussing. Historically, Mary hadn't dealt well with it. Usually it meant Nanny was on standby, hovering nearby to change his diaper or burp him.

The car pulled up in front of the house. Mary frowned until she saw Branson step out. He waited in front of the car, standing patiently for whoever had ordered the car around. Mary watched, her interest captured more by this than the landscape of the estate. However, Mary was forced to avert her eyes once Branson, evidently growing restless waiting for whoever it was, tilted his head upward and almost met her gaze. She turned away immediately, focusing her attention to George, who was still staring up at her with Matthew's eyes.

Mary didn't look out again until she had counted to thirty, at which point Mama and Rose had appeared. Branson was holding the door open for them. Mystery solved and Mary's idle curiosity sated, she returned what little attentions she had to her son.

* * *

The following day started off as an ordinary one. Anna arrived at her usual time, helping her into another black dress and pinning up her dark hair. These days, Mary preferred something more utilitarian than fashionable, usually wearing a matching black hat to complete the look.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Anna asked. It was her standard question; while her and Branson's arrangement relied upon saying nothing at all, the one between her and Anna revolved around a series of questions. They were the same each time, if not in wording than in sentiment.

"Well enough, I suppose," replied Mary flatly. She hadn't had dreams— those nights were the worst. Whenever it was a pleasant dreams, she awoke with a profound aching in her heart and a longing for the past or for a future that was never meant to be. Nearly all these dreams centered on her, Matthew, George, and sometimes a number of other children (all imaginary), living a perfect, happy life. They were just as bad, Mary thought, as the nightmares. Visions of her husband and her son as bloodied, mangled corpses haunted her into waking life. She wished there was a way to wash them from her mind.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Anna, running a brush through Mary's thick hair. In the old days, this was a task Mary would have done herself. However, since Matthew's death, maintaining the proper level of personal hygiene seemed pointless. If it weren't for Anna practically dragging her from the bed to the bathtub, Mary wouldn't have bathed at all during those first few months. Though she knew herself perfectly capable of brushing her own hair, it was simpler to let Anna do it. "Will you breakfast here or join the family this morning?"

"Here, I think. And I shall eat once I return from the village," replied Mary, already knowing the next question. "I haven't an appetite at the moment, though I am sure I will once I return." It was a lie— Mary usually didn't have much of an appetite these days. The only reason she continued to eat was for a simple need of sustenance.

"Very good, milady." Then, "Any news from Lady Edith?"

Mary shrugged as Anna stopped brushing, reaching for the pins. "I gather she reached London safely... which is a relief, I suppose." She didn't intend to sound so uncaring, but Anna wouldn't have judged her even if she had. It was one of the things she liked most about Anna; she always reserved judgement.

Mary met Branson outside, stepping into the back of the car. He drove on to the village, the only sound the dull roar of the motor in the automobile.

When Mary went to Matthew, she found her flowers exactly where she left them. "Hello, my darling." This was her usual greeting. "Yesterday, I'll admit, was terribly dreadful and lonely without you..."

She proceeded to complain about her family, rejoiced in Edith's absence (not out of malice, but solely so there wasn't another person in the house to test her nerves), then informed him of Rose's dress fitting in York.

"I know she can be quite wild, but I doubt anything she has picked will even compare to Sybil and her harem pants." She smiled at the memory, forgetting the shock she had felt. "Do you remember? Oh, Papa was furious— though I do wish she could have hired a photographer to capture the looks on all our faces— I'm sure I would laugh if I could see it now." _And you'd be in it, too,_ she thought, _and I'd have another reminder of you and what you used to look like._ Still, that seemed awfully personal to say aloud, even to Matthew, so it remained spoken only in her mind.

She kissed her fingertips when she was through, recited her, "Goodbye, my darling," and walked down the path.

Everything was as it should be; Mary sat in the back as Branson drove on. She had become so used to everything about these journeys: the scent of leather and wet dirt clinging to the bottom of her shoes, the little bumps in the road that Branson could never manage to avoid, the repetitive sputtering of the engine. It was something she had grown comfortable in...

Which was why she was startled by the sound of Branson's voice.

"Have you heard from Lady Sybil recently?"

Mary stared at the back of his head, stunned. She couldn't have possibly heard him correctly... in fact, she couldn't have heard him at all. Why would Branson be speaking to her? He _never_ spoke to her, not after the first week; by that point, Branson had understood that she would always be requesting to be driven to the cemetery.

In spite of Mary's reluctance to believe that Branson had actually spoken to her, the question hung in the air, stagnant and waiting to be answered. Her lips parted, eyes darting to the mirror. A second later, she saw his blue eyes there, silently inquiring if she would respond or not. "Not recently, no," Mary found herself saying, almost without her own permission. "She's been quite busy. Schoolwork and all of that."

Branson nodded. "I'm sure she must be. Where is she studying again? I forget."

"Barnard College."

"That's right." After a small silence, he asked, "Does she like America, then?"

"I think so." She certainly liked the freedom of America— or, perhaps, the freedom from the reins of control harnessed by Mama, Papa, and English society in general. Always a rebel at heart, Sybil had seized the opportunity to properly fly the nest when it seemed Mary would be leaving to ride out the storm of scandal with Grandmama in New York. Mary had been comforted to know that, while Anna would stay behind to help free Mr. Bates, she would have a beloved sister with her, even if she would be involved with school and coursework... but then Matthew had proposed, which meant Mary could stay behind. Sybil, however, would not.

"I think it's wonderful that she chose to pursue an education," proclaimed Branson in the front, almost sounding proud.

"She always wanted to," said Mary without even thinking. If she had been, she wouldn't be discussing her sister's private affairs, and certainly not with the chauffeur. "Even before the war and the nursing. Granny thought she was mad..."

"Your grandmother can be reluctant to embrace change."

"That's a generous way of putting it." Branson laughed. "And I'm not sure she ever embraces change so much as she holds it in between two fingers at an arm's length away."

"That does sound more like the Dowager Countess," agreed Branson with unmistakable amusement. "But even she seems proud of Lady Sybil."

"I think she is. It might not be the sort of life she envisioned for a granddaughter of hers, but she cares far more about our happiness than she'll ever let on."

They were encroaching upon personal territory. Seeming to grasp that, Branson turned the subject back to the one before, asking, "How close is Lady Sybil to completing her degree?"

"I'm not quite sure, really," said Mary, trying to think. The first couple of semesters had been difficult for her sister— their educations had been expensive, though not extensive. At the start, Sybil had scheduled too many courses for herself and been forced to drop two in order to receive passing grades. A tutor had been hired to help her through the areas their governesses hadn't covered and Sybil had gradually worked herself up to a full schedule. The first few letters from America had pained Mary at the time; she hated hearing Sybil so disheartened and had been almost ready to go to America to rescue her baby sister. In the end, she was glad she hadn't. Sybil persisted and had done well for herself. "There's certain classes that must be taken before they are allowed to graduate and so many credits... but she's hinted at going to medical school once she's finished."

"So there might be a Dr. Crawley in future?" Branson asked, simultaneously teasing and genuinely pleased.

"Perhaps... though I'm certain everyone here will insist she be called _Lady_ Dr. Crawley," said Mary wryly.

"Does this mean Dr. Clarkson shall find himself out a job should she choose to return to Downton?"

"I'm not sure she will, if I'm being honest." Sybil had been too busy with school to come for Mary's wedding, and Edith's wedding from Hell had fallen on the week of her final examinations. Sybil had returned home that summer, encouraging Edith's budding career in journalism and joining Rose for mad adventures in London during her first stay at Downton, and she left shortly after the cricket match. She'd come home the Christmas of 1920, but since then her visits had been few and far between. Her last visit had been for the funeral, and she had returned to America three days later, citing that she needed to get back in time for the fall semester. "She likes New York. She has a life there— I'm not sure she sees that for herself here. She wants to move forward, not back."

Branson nodded again. "Well, I wish her the best of luck." It was now that Mary realized they were in the driveway. "She was always kind to me. I hope she succeeds."

Mary remembered Sybil's kindness towards the chauffeur all too well. She was jerked back into reality, the one where she didn't speak to Branson on family matters, and aghast at her lack of discretion. How unprofessional! She wouldn't report him to Papa, of course, no matter how improper it was, but she remained stunned by his actions. Why was he asking after Sybil?

Their routine was altered once again, for when Branson opened the door for her, she didn't say " _Thank you_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments last chapter! I'm not sure if I'll be able to update next week, as I will be very busy, but until then, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**The Lady in Black**

**Chapter Two**

Mary awoke the following morning long before Anna had even begun her walk up to the house. Nevertheless, it took her maid entering the room to rouse her from bed. Used to her mercurial moods, Anna didn't bother with pleasantries that morning. There was no need to ask Mary how well she had slept when the dark circles under her eyes spoke for her.

After picking at her breakfast and dressing for the day, Mary met Branson in front of the house. She hoped that the conversation from yesterday was an isolated incident. Though it was obviously inappropriate for Branson to discuss such things, it was natural he would be curious about Sybil and her adventures in New York City. They had shared a peculiar friendship, born of their similar politics and it had only blossomed during the war. Mary had been afraid it was something more, only Sybil had always vehemently insisted it was purely platonic.

It wasn't that Mary disliked Branson; he'd never given her any reason to find dislike with him. She had merely been concerned as an older sister that Sybil would see the youngish, good looking chauffeur as an escape route from their way of life, especially when she had always complained about the conventions and rituals they lived by. When she had found them one day, talking lowly in the yard, Mary had felt as if she was standing over an abyss— one where Papa would be furious and Sybil lost to them forever as she followed Branson somewhere they couldn't follow. For maybe the first and only time in her life, Mary had been pleased when she had been proven wrong. It meant she hadn't lost a sister and the family hadn't lost a decent chauffeur.

Blessedly, Branson was silent during their drive to the village. Mary was on edge, tense as they wound down the familiar road, just waiting for him to open his mouth. It wasn't until they reached the cemetery that Mary was able to relax. Clearly, his impertinent inquiries were a one time thing. "Thank you, Branson," she said, stepping out of the car, feeling warmer towards him than she had earlier in the day. Branson graced her with a smile and silence, for which she was immensely grateful.

However, the second half of their journey wasn't as lucky. Mary had settled back into the comfort of her surroundings, taking note of the Dower House as they passed it, when Branson's Irish brogue interjected her reverie. "Have you read any interesting books lately, milady? Only I noticed you check plenty out from Lord Grantham's library."

Mary stiffened. Oh... so this was to be something he sprung upon her in the second leg of their journeys? Mary might have said something then, only she felt too weary to muster up her usual sharpness. She hoped that her silence would be enough to make him realize she wasn't in the mood— or even better yet, that yesterday had been an anomaly that was never to be be repeated.

But her lack of response did not seem to deter him— if anything, it spurred him on. "I don't read novels much— I stick to my history and my politics, but I don't mind a good suggestion every now and then."

Again, Mary didn't reply. Hopefully he would get the hint— she didn't wish to speak with him. At all.

Luck wasn't on her side. "Though perhaps you might enjoy some of the things I read," he continued. "I'm not sure how political you are or if there's any causes that interest you—"

"Has it occurred to you that I'm not in the mood for conversing?" She said, a touch harsher than intended, though it succeeded in silencing him.

Well... for a moment or two, anyway...

"It had. But I thought it might do you some good." He seemed unshaken by her icy tone.

Mary's lips pressed into a thin line. She oughtn't say anything more, but... "Is it your place to be concerned about whether or not something is good for me?"

"Probably not. But I'm not much one for playing by the rules." He took a right turn with the car. "But you're the one who determines whether or not it's an offense grievous enough to be sacked for."

It was harder and harder to conceal her growing irritation with him. She didn't dislike Branson, but she didn't know him, either. Mary was starting to think that was a good thing. "Don't be ridiculous. You won't be sacked for talking to me."

Branson said nothing for another minute or so. However, Mary wasn't convinced he was done. It was with little surprise that he spoke again, quieter this time. "I only remember what it is like to grieve, that's all. And I know conversing with others helped bring me back to the world of the living." It was a surprisingly personal declaration. She didn't know what to say, so waited until he added, "And you don't feel like talking, I can fill the silence all on my own.."

Mary was certain he could. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that while she appreciated the effort, she really must decline out of propriety, but instead found herself sighing, "Oh, very well."

Branson could hardly seem to believe it. There was a blessed moment of silence before he launched into a synopsis of his latest find in Papa's library. Mary managed to tune most of it out, though she wasn't completely annoyed by it. In fact, she admired his passion, in a way. She remembered being excited about life once.

* * *

There came to be an unspoken set of rules between the two of them.

The first rule was that there was to be no discussion of the family. Mary made her stance on the subject clear and Branson didn't question it.

The second rule was that there was no talking from the house to the cemetery. Mary was often still sluggish and tired, which would have made her a poor conversationalist anyway. Branson never spoke to her, aside from verifying any orders she had given him.

Third, he was the one who started the conversation. Mary could join in if or whenever she chose to, but Branson always set the tone. If she felt too beleaguered by the weight of her grief on a certain morning, Branson wouldn't comment on it. Instead, he would ramble on about whatever he had chosen to speak about until Mary returned to the house.

Much to her surprise, it didn't bother her. In fact, the only thing about the arrangement that _did_ bother was how little it bothered her. If she were more herself, she would have been shut down his attempts to speak with her immediately.

But Mary wondered if she would ever be herself again. Her mind was never far from the memory of Matthew's last words to her, about how she would always be his version of Mary Crawley... but sometimes she wondered if that part of herself had ever existed at all. The only time Matthew's Mary appeared was in the cemetery each morning. She made no appearance any other time of the day. There had once been multiple facets of herself that existed, but they had all seemed to die with her husband, leaving behind the empty shell of who she once had been to grieve for him.

Now there was a new version: the version of her that only appeared when she spoke to Branson. Not _Branson's Mary,_ as she belonged to no one now, but a part of herself only Branson was allowed to see. She made witty jokes, wry remarks, and occasionally asked questions (though she mainly only did this when he gossiped about the other servants). At the end of the day, she knew nothing more about him than she had the day before, and he hadn't gleaned anything about her.

Nevertheless, the arrangement suited Mary. It was nice, not having to be herself for a while and having no expectations on how she should act placed upon her. Her family meant well, truly, but they had this annoying tendency of assuming what she must be feeling. Her parents acted as though her mental state was a precariously stacked house of cards, ready to tumble and give way at any possible moment if someone so much as breathed in her direction.

And it did help, like Branson had said. As utterly pointless as their conversations were in the grand scheme of things, when Mary could listen to Branson recount some plot to a book he read or she told him about some humorous story from a ball years ago, she could forget about her misery for a while. It gave her something else to focus on besides her own loneliness.

It became their new routine. Talking about current events, books, gossip from the servant's hall... sometimes, when Mary was feeling loquacious she would reminisce about her travels abroad as a girl. It was an escape— from the house, from her family, and from her life.

* * *

"Sorry," said Mary, frowning as she tried to get the facts straight. "So... Alfred likes Daisy—"

"Alfred likes Ivy. Daisy likes Alfred," corrected Branson. His eyes were shining with amusement. "And Ivy likes Jimmy."

"Goodness," said Mary, "that sounds rather confusing." She remembered similar situations when she had been a young debutante, when too many men and women were interested in the wrong person. It always made dinner parties quite interesting (and usually amusing) but Mary very much doubted it led to a productive work environment. "And who is Jimmy after, pray?"

"He doesn't say," replied Branson.

"But you have an idea?"

"I do... but I could be wrong."

"It's no fun if you don't share, Branson," she said, leaning back.

"Well, if I ever get any concrete evidence for my theory, you'll be the first one I tell."

"You had better." Mary crossed her arms, resisting a smile. She wasn't put out— not really. Still, she couldn't help but be somewhat miffed. While the love triangle (or perhaps a rectangle or pentagon might be a more apt shape to describe it) downstairs was nothing that truly interested her when she had no real knowledge of these people, it was fun to gossip about others. James (or Jimmy, as she had learned from Branson, as he was called downstairs) was at least someone she saw several times a day. She knew he was handsome and perhaps a little full of himself, so she was curious as to whom Branson felt met his standards if a pretty kitchen maid wouldn't do.

Mama was waiting outside the house for her when they pulled up the driveway. _Damn,_ Mary thought, her high spirits plummeting drastically. It seemed as if she was about to be bombarded with _something_ or other. Mary's fingernails dug into her skirt, pushing deep into her thigh as she breathed deeply.

Branson held the door open for her and she thanked him before turning to her mother. "Is something the matter?" Her eyebrows furrowed in simultaneous confusion and concern.

"No, not at all." Mama smiled. "Branson," she called out, just before the man climbed back into the car. "Will you be available to drive Lady Mary into Ripon tomorrow at three? She has an appointment at Madame Swann's."

Mary wasn't sure which part of her mother's statement take offense to— scheduling an appointment for her without consulting her first or ordering the car for her as if Mary was a three year old. She felt her cheeks burn as she glanced over her shoulder of Branson.

"Certainly, your Ladyship," he said, bowing his head ever so slightly before jumping into the car and driving off to the garage.

"I'm not a child," she informed her mother as soon as Branson was out of earshot. Her eyes narrowed as she said, "I can schedule my own appointments and order the car myself."

"I know that," Mama said, mystified and somewhat hurt by her daughter's reaction. Mary immediately felt guilty though she didn't show it. "But you seem so much lighter lately. I just thought it might be nice for you to go get fitted for some new dresses... and I knew you would be home any moment..."

Mary felt sick. New dresses... Mama wanted her to switch over to half mourning. The family had already made the transition to some color several months prior, leaving Mary behind in her black, but two hundred and six days had passed... which meant everyone would be expecting that of her now... especially now that she was no longer as miserable as she had been. How cruel that a few moments of sunniness came with such a cost.

"Besides," said Mama, tone soft, "Your birthday is next week. Consider it my gift."

Her birthday... God, was it her birthday already? She would be thirty one years old... Mary could hardly believe it. When she married Matthew, she hadn't expected to spend another birthday without him— at least not until they were both old and grey. "Thank you," she murmured, too numb to process it all entirely.

Instead of lying down in her bedroom as she was wont to do these days, Mary decided to put in an hour with George. Nanny West handed him over to her, cooing as Mary held him close. "You can leave us now, Nanny," Mary told her, desperately longing to be alone... well, alone with her son. George wouldn't ask questions or assume too much of her. "I'll ring if I need anything."

George looked up at Mary with his bright blue eyes, tongue sticking out. His little hand reached out towards her nose, clenching the air in front of it. Mary smiled at him, charmed, before shifting him slightly and sitting down in the rocking chair. He had grown quite big now— he would turn seven months old on her birthday.

If Mary closed her eyes, she could pretend Matthew was standing behind her, admiring their son. She could imagine the smile on his face, the look of awe, even the sound of his voice— " _He's just the most perfect little chap, isn't he?"_

But when she opened her eyes, he wasn't there; it was just her and George, all on their lonesome.

She wasn't ready yet— she wasn't ready to signal to world yet that she was coming out of mourning when in reality, she wouldn't be, not for some time. It would be a lie to pretend otherwise. Matthew might be dead but he still lived on in her mind, in her heart, in her son... and she wasn't ready to give him up just yet.

A teardrop fell from her eyes onto her son's cheek. He blinked in surprise. "Sorry," Mary said in a choked voice, using her thumb to wipe it away. It was with a start she realized these were her first words to him— she had spoken to others when he was present, of course, but she had never directed any of it to George.

She bit back a bitter laugh. Her first proper words to her son were _Sorry._ That didn't exactly bode well for their future relationship.

Mary studied George carefully, who was still looking up at her. "I know I'm not much of a mother," she told him wearily, figuring she might as well be honest with him, "but I do love you."

George said nothing, merely reaching out with his little hand to squeeze her index finger. She knew he couldn't possibly understand what she had just said... but she liked to think maybe he might.

* * *

A letter arrived during luncheon:

_Dearest Mary,_

_I hope you are doing well. Mama said in her latest letter that you seem happier now than you've been ages. I'm so glad to hear that— I've been worrying myself sick for months wondering how you were faring and if you were doing any better._

_I have some good news myself— My friend Clara and I shall be moving into a flat this summer! We found a nice place in Manhattan, not too far from Central Park! It's absolutely gorgeous— perhaps if you are feeling up to it, you might come visit us! I cannot say enough nice things about America and a little excitement might be just the thing you need!_

_As I'm sure you can gather from my letter, I'm not planning on returning to Downton this summer. I'm sure it must come as a disappointment and I so wish it could be avoided, but that way of life no longer suits me. I don't think I could bear another summer of Mama shoving me at well-to-do bachelors when I can't even fathom the idea of marrying now. Nursing is only the beginning— I mean to become someone extraordinary and I don't see how I can achieve that as Lord So-and-So's wife._

_How is my favorite nephew doing? I'm sure he must be getting big— Mama told me about the adorable sailor costumes Nanny dresses him in. I wish I could see him in them! Oh, Mary, won't you please have his picture taken so I may see it? It sounds too sweet for words._

_With all my love,_

_Sybil_

Mary tucked the letter back into its envelope, picking at her meal. She wondered if this would join the pile of unanswered letters or if she would actually respond this time.

* * *

A pile of purple and mauve dresses were laid out on Mary's bed when she arrived to have a lie down. The sight made her mouth go dry.

"Milady! I wasn't expecting you so soon!" gasped Anna, who was standing in front of the open wardrobe, removing dresses.

"What's this?"

"Her Ladyship told me to take out all the clothes. For half mourning." Anna glanced at her nervously, bottom lip between her teeth. "She said you would be getting some new ones soon and to take out all the ones you didn't want or didn't fit into anymore to make room."

Her eyes roved over them... Mary let her fingers trace over the skirt of the dress she had worn when the Duke of Crowborough had come to Downton all those years ago. It was hard to believe that it had been that long since someone in their family had passed. They had been lucky during the war, the house left unscathed save for the passing of William. Lavinia had come after that, but a prolonged period of mourning hadn't been expected for her then.

Looking at these dresses now made her stomach churn. Bile burned at the back of her throat. "Get rid of all of them," she said, drawing her hand away. "I won't wear them again."

Anna seemed surprised but nodded. "Of course, milady." She began gathering the dresses up and Mary turned away, walking to the bathroom. She felt as though she might be sick.

* * *

The following afternoon found Mary in the back of the car heading towards Ripon, the bumpy road jostling them about. Branson muttered something about how the road needed to be mended as Mary's teeth snapped together with every bump.

"Are you alright this afternoon, milady?" Branson finally asked once the road evened out more.

"Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You only look as if you're about to commit murder," he said bluntly. Seeming to realize that was too candid, he hastily began saying, "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"That's alright," Mary assured him, irritation quelled slightly. She would need to school her face into something resembling indifference if she didn't want to frighten Madame Swann and the shop girls. She was rather glad he had brought it to her attention. "The truth is I'm rather frustrated."

"Oh?" Branson raised his eyebrows. They almost met the brim of his hat.

Mary hesitated. Normally she could voice her annoyances to Anna, but she hadn't felt comfortable doing so when her maid had unfortunately been tangled up in Mama's well meaning scheme. She needed someone to talk to... there was always George but he couldn't exactly provide advice to her...

"I probably shouldn't tell you," she said, thinking of their unspoken rules. She sense this would be too personal.

"Well now I'm intrigued."

If she told him, she would be crossing a line. That, Mary knew. But she felt she couldn't keep it in any longer. She decided to bite to bullet. "It's this stupid dress fitting."

"I thought you liked shopping for dresses."

"I do, only Mama..." Mary trailed off. She wasn't supposed to discuss Mama. She never discussed her parents, aside from the odd mention as background characters when she told him about the trips to Cairo or Nice in her youth. But there was no way around it... "Mama thinks it's time to come out of mourning. Full mourning, that is. She wants me to move on."

Branson met her gaze in the mirror. "But you aren't ready for that yet." It wasn't a question. Mary supposed he of all people knew how deep her devotion to Matthew still ran. He could understand how the mere idea of insinuating that she wasn't still grieving his loss was a fallacy.

"Not in the slightest." It felt good to be able to say those words aloud— Mary felt like a caged dove, finally set free and allowed to stretch out her wings.

"You and Mr. Crawley had a great love. Not many people are lucky enough to have that. It's perfectly natural you wouldn't be ready yet." It was nice to be heard for once, to be understood. "Have you told your mother this?"

"She wouldn't listen," said Mary. She could already hear the arguments that would spring up should she speak her own mind. "The way we feel isn't enough justification to abandon rules and traditions."

"Maybe for your family," agreed Branson. "Maybe it's the only way they can carry on and live with their feelings. But I don't see why you must follow them if they make you uncomfortable."

"I wish it were that simple."

"It could be," Branson told her, just as they entered the town properly.

Mary didn't know what to say. Branson was far too idealistic... what was he proposing she do? Order him to turn the car around so she could talk to Mama? The shop was already in sight now...

"Just think about it," Branson said when he opened up the door, not even giving her a chance to reflexively thank him.

Mary was too flummoxed to contemplate answering. Think about what? What was she supposed to do? She brushed past him, heading into the shop, mind whirring.

Before long, Mary found every inch of her being measured. Mary began listing off several styles she felt might work, resigned to her fate.

"And what colors would you like, milady?" asked Madame Swan herself, a small handheld notebook in her hands.

Mary couldn't believe it hadn't come to her sooner.

* * *

_Dearest Sybil,_

_Thank you so much for your letter. I apologize for not having returned them sooner. To tell you the truth, I have felt better of late. I cannot begin to say why but I have._

_I am pleased to hear about your apartment though terribly sad to you won't be joining us this summer... though I can hardly blame you. Mama has been testing my nerves of late so I quite empathize. I am afraid the idea of heading to America for a summer doesn't exactly sound like my idea of a relaxing holiday, so I'll have to decline. I'm not quite ready for a big adventure just yet, especially not with George so young._

_Enclosed is a picture of George in his outfit. It hasn't been taken yet but it will be once you receive this letter— I've booked an appointment at some studio in Ripon. I'm going to pick up some new frocks next week and I thought it a perfect opportunity. I'm looking to hire a new nanny for him; Mama won't tell me why she fired the last one, only that she was "saying things she shouldn't". I managed to find out from Anna that apparently my parenting wasn't up to snuff for the likes of her. At any rate, she's gone now, which is a relief, and Mama is singing Barrow praises for telling us of Nanny's true nature._

_How are classes going? You must be pleased to be nearing the end of the semester, just to have a break. Have fun but not too much during your summer— and be sure to tell Clara I say hello._

_Love,_

_Mary_

* * *

"Oh!" Anna unwrapped the dress from its packaging. She met Mary's gaze. "This isn't quite what I was expecting."

"I'm sure it wasn't," said Mary. "But I'm afraid no other color agreed with me."

Anna held it up, studying it. She glanced at Mary, a little sadly, before helping her into the dress for dinner.

When Mary entered the drawing room, she was greeted by the sight of her parents and Granny. "Oh, good. You're here. Now we just have to wait for Rose and Edith," said Mama. Mary hummed in response as she went to take her seat next to Mama, who remarked, "I'm surprised you aren't wearing one of your new dresses this evening."

"Oh, but I am," said Mary pleasantly. "Didn't you notice the new design?"

Mama's brow furrowed. "But... but it's black."

"Precisely."

Mama was clearly baffled, blinking rapidly as she surveyed the dress. "I don't understand... you seemed to be doing much better recently. What's changed?"

"That's just it. Nothing's changed. That's why I'm still wearing black." Mama was still looking at her with confusion. "I miss him, Mama. I won't pretend otherwise... and I certainly don't want the rest of the world to think so."

"But Mary," Mama chided, her tone reminiscent of the one she might use to scold Isis, "It's been six months."

Unable to keep her polite façade going any longer, Mary rolled her eyes. "I don't think the human heart puts a time line on these things."

"Maybe so, but you know how these things are done." Mama was clearly vexed. "Am I to take it that all of your dresses are the same?"

"I'm afraid so," said Mary, not bothering to hide her amusement. Honestly, why was she so worked up? It was only a dress!

Granny and Papa, who had been speaking amongst themselves, only tuned in to the second part of conversation. "What's this?" tittered Granny.

"It seems Mary isn't transitioning into half mourning after all," Mama revealed with a lofty, disapproving sigh.

Papa gave her a severe look, looking as though he was ready to chastise her, but Granny simply said, "Well... I suppose if it was good enough for Queen Victoria to mourn Prince Albert the rest of her days, than we can hardly complain."

"Thank you, Granny," said Mary, not sure if she should take it as approval or not, but pleased that she had an ally. "It's nice to know that at least one person is on my side."

Mama remained displeased, standing up to go talk with Papa, who seemed equally disapproving. Granny was lowering herself into a chair when Mary quietly said, “I mean that, you know.”

“Of course you would. It isn’t like you to be sentimental.” Granny gave her a smile. “Which is why I know that if you are willing to admit that you aren’t ready to move forward yet, than you are being truthful.”

Mary stared down at her lap. Granny was right, of course... When it came to Matthew, there seemed to be a shred of softness still left in her, a small part of her that remained totally vulnerable.

“You were very fortunate, my dear,” Granny spoke up again.

A bitter laugh escaped her. “Am I? I don’t feel very fortunate.”

“You knew a great love,” continued Granny, ignoring her cynicism. “In families like ours, that’s a rare feat. At most, you may tolerate one another, but that was it.” Her voice grew quiet as she said, “When your grandfather passed... I must confess, when the time came to switch to half mourning, I was quite ready for it.”

Mary wasn’t wholly surprised by this admission; she only had faint, foggy memories of her grandfather. She never remembered her grandparents standing close to one another or exchanging dewy eyed looks across a room, as Mama and Papa still did. In fact, most of her memories of the two of them consisted them of sitting on opposite sides of a room from one another and busting themselves with the others. 

“So what I am saying, my dear, is that you had a gift that so few people are given.” Granny sounded quite serious now. “So don’t be bullied into moving along until you are quite ready to do so. Treasure what you had for as long as you like... and I shall gladly serve as your ally.” 

Mary blinked rapidly. “Oh Granny... anymore talk like this and I shall grow quite weepy.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Granny said with a laugh. But thankfully, as Edith entered the room, she asked instead, “Now tell me, how is dear little George coming along?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments! Tomorrow is looking quite busy so I figured I would post the update today! I hope you enjoy it!

**The Lady in Black**

**Chapter Three**

Mary's choice of attire didn't shock her family for long. Her black dresses were overshadowed by an important discovery made in Matthew's office... one that changed her life.

There had been a document, signed by him, an unofficial will of sorts. As his wife, Mary had inherited his share of the estate. Until George was of age, she was part owner of her beloved home.

Mary had wept when she realized what it all meant, though it wasn't tears of sadness. She couldn't help but remember the evening where he had revealed to her, with great dismay, that in order to break the entail they would need a private bill from Parliament... he had been the first man in her life to act as if her interest in Downton truly mattered. And now... now he had finally given her a _say_. She had thought George was his final gift to her, but she had been wrong. Matthew was still looking out for her, reminding her of how much he had loved her... she didn't regret her choice of dress at all. How could she ever think of moving on when he still had such a powerful hold over her heart?

She could hardly sleep that night— if it weren't for the time and the dark, Mary would have asked Branson to drive her to cemetery that evening so that she could thank Matthew straight away. However, she waited until she had slept uninterrupted for a few hours before ringing for Anna and order the car around.

"I know that you must know how grateful I am, but I wanted to tell you all the same." The weather had warmed up now; spring seemed close. Mary was able to kneel in the grasses without worrying about her knees sinking into damp dirt. "I cannot thank you enough, my darling. For giving me a chance to prove myself... for giving me a _voice_."

Had she been a boy, Downton would guaranteed to have been hers. It was only her sex that had circumvented everything and passed along whatever inheritance might have been hers to cousin after cousin after cousin. It had vexed her as a young girl, when she realized Downton could never be her home forever unless she married Cousin Patrick.

It wasn't to say she regretted marrying Matthew or even resented him. No— his love was a far greater reward than getting to reign over Downton as Countess. As the mother to the future Earl, Mary had assumed she might be granted some sort of a say, likely in that liminal period between Papa's demise and George's ascendancy if he still wasn't of age. But now it was guaranteed to her by the law.

She hadn't even realized the tears had begun to fall until she tasted the salt on her lips. Mary deftly reached into her bag, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. After the first couple of times she had come to visit, she had learned what to bring so that she was prepared.

When there was nothing more to say, Mary bid him farewell and walked up the path to the car. Branson was sitting in the front seat, engrossed in a thick green tome that matched his uniform almost perfectly. Mary was wondering if she needed to say something to capture his attention when he finally noticed her approaching. "Apologies, milady," he said, closing his book before jumping out.

"That's quite alright, Branson," she replied. Nothing could take away her sunny mood, it seemed.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Is everything—" he paused, before rearranging his face into a blank mask. "Never mind." He held the door open.

But Mary stood. She found herself curious. "No. Go on. What were you going to say?"

Branson seemed torn. "I was only going to ask if you were alright, milady. Only you look as if you've been crying."

"Oh," said Mary, taken somewhat aback. Apparently she hadn't given herself (or, perhaps, her eyes and nose) enough time to recover before returning the vehicle. She always tried to conceal her tears from Branson... from any living person, really.

"I only ask because... well, you haven't cried. Not in months. Not from what I could tell, anyway." Branson was almost embarrassed now.

Mary shook her head. It had never occurred to her that Branson had paid much attention to her emotional state when she visited the cemetery. Truthfully, it had never occurred to her that he should care.

It wasn't that she thought him heartless. In fact, Branson had demonstrated plenty of times over the years at Downton that he harbored some care for her family. Mary had never forgotten the concern he had shown for Sybil after the count, his panic over her wellbeing planting the seed in her mind that had lead her paranoid belief they were secretly courting during the war.

Nevertheless, she was still astonished that he had bothered to pay attention. "Don't worry about me, Branson," she found herself saying, stepping towards the car again. He opened up the door for her, still eyeing her warily. She waited until he began driving before revealing, "I've had some good news. I'm afraid my emotions got rather carried away with me."

Branson's shoulders eased. "Well, I'm glad to hear it," he said, a trace of a laugh in his voice. "I must confess, I was rather worried."

"My apologies," Mary said, still rather taken aback by his concern. She waited a moment before revealing, "It seems that before he passed, Mr. Crawley left behind a will leaving his portion of Downton to me until our son is of age."

"You're right— that is good news," said Branson. She could practically hear him smiling. "I'm pleased for you."

"Thank you," said Mary, beaming with pride.

"Do you have any plans for the estate yet?"

"Not many," she confessed. "I think most of my job will be keeping my father out of trouble... if he decides to even accept my help. He made such a display at dinner last night to show everyone just how little I know about running an estate." There was a bitter taste in Mary's mouth as she remembered her humiliation as her father fired off questions in a rapid succession about matters she hadn't even heard of, let alone had a chance to investigate.

Branson said nothing for a moment. Then, "Have you considered speaking with Mr. Milton?" He asked, referring to the agent that had been hired shortly after Jarvis resigned. He was a younger fellow, some acquaintance of Matthew's from school, with a wife and several young daughters. As someone of Matthew's generation, he was more malleable to the new ideas proposed than rigid Mr. Jarvis ever had been.

Mary blinked. "I hadn't. Not yet, anyway..."

"It might be worth looking into," he suggested. "Then you can understand the issues and prove to your father how capable you are and that you deserve to be heard."

Mary was surprised by how practical the advice was. It was as plain as the nose on her face and yet she had overlooked it. "Thank you, Branson," she said, the words taking a different flavor now.

* * *

News of the upcoming house party was met with mixed results. Rose was elated at the possibility of young men flocking to house again, Edith saw it as an excuse to finally invite her Mr. Gregson into their midst...

And Mary could care less.

"Don't you want to invite some friends, darling?" urged Mama, desperate for her eldest daughter to take interest. Mary had been sequestered, against her will, in the small library with her parents. It had been empty when she had gone there to read, but soon she had found herself ambushed. "Maybe we could invite Evelyn Napier—"

"I'm sure I'll find ways of entertaining myself without adding to the guest list," Mary said, looking up from a book on animal husbandry. "I'm planning on going with Milton soon and taking a tour of some of the farms."

Papa blanched. "Whatever for?"

"As an owner of the estate, I thought I would be proactive and learn more about it," said Mary. She held up the book, showing him the title. "If I am to help make decisions, then I ought to at least know what I am talking about." She lifted her head. "Or would you prefer I remained ignorant, so you could manage it all yourself?"

Papa looked uncomfortable. "We can discuss this later," he said, eying the door. "I need to make a call to London." He advanced out of the room.

Mary bit back her disappointment, picking up her book again. She would have thought Papa would be more pleased. She only hoped his reluctance to her involvement stemmed from his lack of desire to relinquish some of his newfound control and not just because she was a woman— or (and this was the worst case) he found her unworthy in some way. Maybe it was because she was still mourning or because she was a woman or he simply thought she lacked the brains to contribute something of worth or even a combination of the three, but Mary felt stung nonetheless.

Mama clearly wasn't as enthusiastic about the idea, either. "You can't spend the entire party with Milton," Mama told her, almost disapprovingly.

"I wasn't planning on it," Mary said with a scowl. Honestly, did Mama think she had been raised in a barn? She was well aware of what was expected of her. It had been drilled into her head by countless governesses and nannies since before she knew how to walk.

There was a brief silence. Mary flipped a page. "Mary," began Mama, sitting on the arm of her chair. "I know it may be impossible to think about it... but would you at least consider inviting some friends?" When her daughter said nothing, she continued, "I'm inviting several for Rose and Edith has Mr. Gregson—"

Mary's head snapped up. "Are you serious?" She demanded, knowing immediately what her mother was getting at.

Mama was not unsympathetic but nevertheless said, "You don't have to do anything right away, Mary. You've made it clear how you feel. I am only asking you to consider the possibility—"

"It hasn't even been a year since Matthew died!" Mary's voice rose to higher pitch until it cracked, piercing the air. "And you are trying to shove me down the aisle already?"

"Don't be absurd!" Mama's eyes were wide. She crossed the room, over to where Mary sat, and gripped her hand. "You loved Matthew very much. And we loved him, too."

Tears burned behind Mary's eyes. It was so strange, to hear it in the past tense... _loved_ , as if she still didn't love him now. As if her feelings for him weren't as fervent as they always had been, as if her longing for him was nonexistent.

"Please don't think I'm trying to force anything, because I'm not," Mama continued. "I agree; it's far too soon for you to think about marriage again. But at the same time—" _Oh, here we go_ , thought Mary, "—I don't want you to forget that you are young." She let out a sigh, looking at her forlornly before saying, "All I want for you is happiness, and I hate the thought of you being alone the rest of your life. So all I am asking you do is keep an open mind for the future."

Mary wanted to see Mama's point of view but she kept getting tripped over one particular thought. "What if being alone is what will make me happiest?" She asked out of genuine curiosity instead of a desire to rile up Mama. With half of Downton hers, it didn't seem inconceivable that she could be happy without a romantic partner.

Mama seemed torn for a moment before saying, "But it isn't just about you anymore, darling. It's about George as well."

Mary blinked. "What about George?"

"He may have a fortune and a position, but every growing boy needs a father," Mama said quietly.

Invoking her son's name was enough to make her feel guilty. She always knew herself to be cool and distant... maybe even aloof was the word. When she had entered motherhood, it had been with the expectation that Matthew would be by her side, making up for her deficiencies. She wanted to do what was best for him— but Mama's words reminded her of it all. A lump swelled in Mary's throat. "He did have a father."

"I know. And I'm sure Matthew would have been the perfect parent. But it is just you now, my darling, and George will need a man to look up to for when he is to become a husband or even a father himself."

"What about Papa? Is he to have no influence in George's life?"

Mama cast her a look. "I hope, for my own sake as well as yours, that your father shall live a long life and see George into adulthood." She paused, as if pondering a world Papa might not be in. "But the future is never certain, darling. I don't know when your Papa will pass on. It could be in two days or two decades but nevertheless there is a possibility he won't always be around for him." She was silent before adding, "And furthermore, your Papa is his grandfather. It's not quite the same thing. No," she continued before Mary could interject, "George needs a man he can look up to."

Mary's patience was wearing thinner and thinner. "What about Barrow?" She said, half sarcastically. "He was a the one who was concerned enough about his welfare to tell you about Nanny West. Perhaps he would be up for the task."

"Mary, _do_ be serious. And don't say that sort of thing in front of your father," she added sharply. "I think if he heard you making jokes about marrying servants, he'd have a heart attack."

Mary rolled her eyes. "I wasn't suggesting _marrying_ Barrow," she said, knowing full well she wasn't his type, "I was saying he could be this mystical father figure for George. He probably won't have any of his own—"

"I don't wish to quarrel with you," Mama said, exhausted. "Just try and have fun at the party. Please." She hesitated before saying, "It's what Matthew would want— he would hate to see you alone the rest of your days."

Mary loathed to admit it, but she was probably right about that. Still, it was hard to imagine he would ever want her to marry someone else, either. Oh, he'd pretended for her sake with Richard Carlisle, but as time wore on even he couldn't hide his disdain for the man any longer. Even if she had chosen a good, kind man, Mary suspected Matthew would have found fault with him; he wasn't the sort to admit it, but he had his flares of occasional jealousy.

"I'll try," promised Mary, picking up her book again, mostly agreeing to appear reasonable and hopefully be permitted to return to her book. Satisfied, Mama smiled and walked away.

Still, their conversation bothered Mary in a way she couldn't describe. It lingered in her mind the rest of the day, even as she read more about rearing pigs and even in the following morning, when her and Branson set off from the cemetery. She already had enough fears about whether or not she really was a good enough mother to George and now this was another thing she could add to it.

She didn't say anything about it to Matthew when she went to speak to him that morning. Maybe it was silly, considering if he ever heard her speaking to him here, he would certainly have been able to hear her speak with Mama yesterday, but it felt blasphemous to Mary. Their love had been something so pure, untainted by anything. To even voice the thought Mama had placed in her mind was equal to sacrilege in Mary's book. So she talked about other things, like her readings and the upcoming party.

Still, despite the brief good mood, her energy wore out along the ride home. She had told Branson about the upcoming party and her enthusiasm had began fading away when he asked if any of her friends were invited. "No," she said, studying the back of her gloved hands. "Not really. Family friends, of course, but..."

"Is something wrong?"

"No," lied Mary, thinking of the rules... before remembering she had already broken them. So what was the point in maintaining them? Mary ignored the voices in her head that reminded her that he was a servant before sighing and saying, "It's just that... well, Mama seems to think I ought to start courting again."

Branson's eyes practically bulged out of his skull from the front. Mary was glad of the mirror and that she wasn't the only one taken aback by all of this. "So soon?" He asked, astonished.

"That's rather my thought," said Mary, relieved in spite of everything. A part of her wondered if she had gone mad, wondering if maybe she was supposed to be ready by now. "It hasn't even been a full year yet... and I still miss him terribly."

"Of course you do."

She gnawed on her bottom lip. "She seems to think that by refusing to move on, I might be depriving Master George at a chance to have a strong male figure in his life. She believes that a young boy ought to have someone to look up to." She paused before asking, "Would you agree with her?"

Branson seemed to hesitate. She wished he wouldn't. She wanted to know... desperately. Finally, he let out a sigh and said, "I don't wish to speak ill of her Ladyship, but I don't think she is correct. At all." He swallowed before saying, "My father passed a way when I was young... I wasn't as young as Master George, but young enough. There was still a lot left that I could have learned from him."

Mary was taken aback. Branson had never volunteered information on his family before... not to her, anyway. She wondered perhaps he was the one Branson spoke of grieving the day their little conversations began. "So who did you learn those things from?"

"My mother." Branson smiled. "She was a strong woman. I think you'd like her. After my father passed and my brother moved away, the two of us went to Dublin and she got a job as a seamstress. She loved my father very much... so much that I don't think she ever thought of replacing him. I won't say I never miss him, because I do, but I don't know where I'd be without her." He glanced back, ever so slightly, still grinning as he said, "So I think Master George will be more than alright, milady."

For maybe the first time in her life, Mary felt a wave of affection towards the chauffeur. He had always been courteous, especially kind to her in the past couple of weeks, but right now, this was something different. "Thank you," she said, genuinely, unable to stop herself from returning the smile... and funnily enough, she didn't want to stop herself. "I needed to hear that." She leaned forward slightly, adjusting herself in the back. "I can tell you love your mother very much."

"I do. She's the best mother I could ask for," Branson said with pride. Mary almost wished she _could_ meet Mrs. Branson— if for nothing else than to let her know how much her son admired her.

Still, his words made her feel sad in a way. _The best mother I could ask for..._ "I'm not sure Master George could say the same about me," she said before she could stop herself.

Mary was prepared for an awkward silence followed by mindless platitudes like, _I'm sure you are a fine mother, milady,_ but instead Branson immediately asked, "Do you love him?"

Mary blinked. "Of course I do."

"And is he properly fed?"

"Yes."

"Do you make sure his diapers are changed and that he is looked after?"

Mary hadn't even considered changing any of his diapers, but since a Nanny was there with him again, she replied, "Yes," yet again.

"Well, then you are a good mother. You care about him and that's all that matters for now," Branson said with confidence. Mary wished she could be as sure as he was. Still... she had never realized Branson could be so... well, _sweet_ , for lack of a better word. She was now very glad he had started up that conversation a month ago.

* * *

The rules were practically obsolete now. Once Mary had started talking about her family, Branson began talking about his. Mary didn't mind; she found it rather enlightening.

As it turned out, they had more in common than she would have ever realized. After complaining about Edith one afternoon, Branson began telling her about his brother, Kieran. "He's not a bad man and I do love him," he insisted, "but sometimes we don't get on."

"Why particularly?"

Branson shrugged. "Sometimes he doesn't take things seriously enough. He doesn't like that I'm still a chauffeur, either."

Mary frowned. "Whatever for? It's a perfectly respectable profession."

He grinned. "I'm glad you think so, milady. He thinks— well, he used to be a chauffeur, too, for a time. But the family he used to work for was horrid, so he gave it all up and started up a shop in Liverpool. He's wanted me to join him there for some years."

"Well," said Mary, a little thrown by his admission, "I hope we aren't horrid."

Branson laughed. "No, don't worry. If I didn't like it here or think your father was a good man, I would have left long ago, like I did at my last place."

Mary supposed that was a relief. She wasn't going to pretend she had always been on her best behavior when it came to Branson... especially when she was younger. In fact, before Matthew had managed to to soften her sharper edges, Mary had been a perfect snob. She was glad to know that any of this hadn't been enough to send Branson heading for the hills... though she wondered what his former place of employment had been like if he hadn't been put off by some of Mary's choicest remarks.

"So you both learned to drive?"

"Our grandfather taught us," Branson explained. "He had a farm in Galway. He saved up enough money to buy a tractor and we learned when we went to visit."

Mary smiled, trying to imagine Branson on a tractor. It was a discordant image in her mind— no, Branson was suited for cars and cars only.

"And that's not enough to bond?" Mary asked.

"It is... for a day or so. But my main concern would be living with him," Branson continued. "See, if I were to go work for him, then I would likely need to live with him for a few months before I could afford my own place... and Kieran and I are better when we aren't under the same roof." He smirked before saying, "Maybe you and Lady Edith would be happier if you lived in separate houses."

"God, I _wish_ we did," said Mary, which earned her a laugh from Branson. "Hopefully her Mr. Gregson will take her off our hands soon enough."

"He is coming to the party, isn't he?"

"He is," confirmed Mary. "I'm afraid I don't know him that well. We met him at Duneagle, but to be honest, I wasn't particularly interested in getting to know him."

"Well, I hope for your sake and Lady Edith's that he'll prove to be a marvelous man who will propose sometime soon."

"Amen to that," drawled Mary with a wry smile, pleased when Branson laughed.

* * *

There was a familiarity to having the house so full again. Still, even when surrounded by so many people, Mary found herself feeling horribly lonely. What she wouldn't give to have Matthew here beside her or even across the room, where they could lock eyes and communicate silently with one another. Mary would even have settled for Sybil, who no doubt would liven things up for her and save her from being subjected to mind numbingly dull conversations with people who wanted to give her their condolences and talk about themselves.

A surprising respite from all of this came in the lithe and supple figure of Tony Foyle— that is, Lord Gillingham. She remembered the man from childhood, someone who had been dragged along by his parents to numerous parties at Downton. He had been several years her senior and likely been irritated by her childishness back then, but now it seemed that was no longer the case, especially since he wished to go riding with her later.

"Does that please you?" Branson asked after she told him about it.

"I'm not sure," said Mary honestly. "He's nice, he's handsome..." she trailed off.

"But he isn't Mr. Crawley?" finished Branson. Mary merely nodded in response. He smiled. "Give it time, milady. If the right man comes along, you'll know it."

"Maybe," said Mary, not as certain as he was. "Lord Gillingham is exactly the sort of person I would have wanted ten years ago..."

"But you've changed since then."

It was true— she had changed. Matthew had changed her. She had once been cold and unaffected, but he had made her grow soft. She wished she had younger self's resilience at times, able to set aside her own pain.

"Where will you take him?"

"I'm not sure yet— I was thinking maybe through the woods, then maybe to the Johnson's pasture to look in on the sheep— Milton and I aren't exactly experts on them and I want to learn more from him."

"I don't claim to be an expert but my grandfather raised sheep on his farm."

That was a surprise. "The same one who taught you to drive?"

"The very same," he smiled. "If you've any questions, I could help."

Mary beamed, amazed. Who would have thought Branson would be a jack of all trades? "Thank you, Branson. I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

The ride with Tony was a breath of fresh air— literally and metaphorically. It had been ages since she had last ridden, what with the excitement of planning for a wedding and pregnancy and mourning. "You'd better take Diamond," Mary told him as Mr. Lynch lead the horses towards them. "He's gentler." She patted the horse on the muzzle before walking over to the white mare.

Tony looked at her askance. "And what's wrong with this one?" He asked, nodding at the white horse.

"Daphne is very fussy on who she lets ride her," said Mary, holding back a smile before letting Lynch help her on. "I wouldn't want to you to be bucked off." In fact, the only people Daphne allowed to handle her were Lynch, Mary, and Sybil— Sybil being his favorite. Mary had a natural affinity with horses and thus managed to gain his trust over time, much to her satisfaction.

"Will you need me to ride out with you, milady?" Lynch asked after Tony had mounted Diamond.

Mary glanced at Tony hesitantly before saying, "I don't think so."

She was pleased she hadn't, in the end. Lynch, while a trustworthy servant and someone who had been with the family for decades, wasn't exactly the best person to have around when getting to know another person.

Mary tried keeping her mind open— really, she did. Tony was handsome and kind— not to mention fabulously wealthy with a suitable position. All in all, perfect husband material. However, Mary quickly learned, he was unlikely to be husband material for her.

"Mabel Lane Fox?" Mary mused aloud, smiling when he told her of his impending engagement. She wasn't displeased— in fact, it was rather a relief. She could pay no more attention to the mad scheme and simply enjoy his company— even if it meant that Mama (and, if she were being honest, Papa) were heartbroken. "So you've caught the greatest heiress of the season."

Tony smiled, taking note of her teasing. "She's very nice, in fact," he informed her.

"I'm sure." She was certain with as much money as Miss Lane Fox would be _very nice—_ that is, as a prospective spouse.

"Of course, everyone wants it, on both sides," said Tony, sounding somewhat resigned, "but we do get on."

Mary tried not to smile— really she did, but all she could think of was the moment she entered the Crawleys parlor, hearing Matthew indignantly tell his mother about how they were " _going to shove one of the daughters at him_!" She had been rather annoyed by him back then... but thank God she had found a way to look past it.

"You may be surprised to hear that a match wanted by everyone can turn out to be extremely happy," she advised him. He might be several years her senior, but Mary was more knowledgeable in the subject of marriage, so she figured she ought to impart her pearls of wisdom.

"Do you speak from experience?"

"Absolutely. Matthew and I were flung at each other's heads from the moment he arrived. If anything, it rather slowed matters up." How she had dragged in her heels! Admitting she loved him was defeat and victory in equal measures.

Tony pondered her words before asking, "But you were happy?"

The years with Matthew had been the happiest of her life. It hurt to think of it now, when his loss was still a gaping wound in her chest, but it was a pleasure as well, to forget he was gone for a moment. When she thought of those blissful moments together, whether it be at a concert for wounded soldiers or sitting on his lap and kissing him gently, she was transported away from this hell, even for a moment. When Mary came back to reality, atop Daphne and by Tony, her answer was bittersweet: "Wonderfully happy."

Tony let a sigh. "How lucky you are." He almost sounded envious

"Am I?" asked Mary. She would hardly call losing one's soulmate and father of one's child _lucky_.

"You've known a great love. Doesn't that enrich any life?" explained Tony. When he put it like that, she supposed it made sense... it was certainly more tactful, at any rate.

Still, Mary remained not wholly convinced "I'm not sure. Matthew changed me," she said, thinking of the woman she had once been. Sometimes she loathed the cold, imperious girl she had been, flippant and uncaring... other times she wished she could slip back into her skin, just for a while. "I loved him but he changed me. If I were as tough as I was before I met him, I bet I'd be happier now."

"Maybe," agreed Tony, "But we can't go back, can we?"

The conversation shifted away from talk of love and marriage to more practical matters, like the running of an estate.

"How wonderful to see an estate that's still all in one piece," mused Tony, looking at Downton and the pastures full of sheep with unabashed longing. Mary knew he was likely thinking of his own ancestral home, which was now a school for girls. The Dower House that he and his mother resided in was comfortable enough, she was sure, but she doubted it was the same.

Realizing that could easily become Downton's fate if things weren't managed properly, she sighed "Don't speak too soon."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we have a big tax bill to pay," Mary explained. "Papa wants to sell land but I'd like to see if we can avoid it. The trouble is, I can't get him to listen." It had quickly become a source of aggravation between her and Papa as she learned more and more about the running of an estate. Milton welcomed her ideas, always taking them into consideration... if only she could say the same of her father.

His lips pressed into a thin line before asking, "Shall I tell you what I'd do?"

"Please." Mary would welcome any advice.

"Make him agree for you to meet the tax people then bring back the best deal they can offer," Tony told her. "In that way you'll have a real case to argue. We had a similar choice when Father died. In the end, we let the house but kept the land."

"Thank you," said Mary honestly. "It's nice to know one's not alone. That others are facing the same trials." She wasn't just talking about the estate. She was talking about Matthew, about that pit of loneliness that had taken refuge deep inside her. That the awful price that came with gaining an estate was losing someone you loved.

"No. You're not alone." Tony gave her a meaningful look— but Mary knew then he didn't understand. Not on the second score.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind reviews! I greatly appreciate them!
> 
> A quick note: this chapter mainly covers events from S4E3. I've been sort of following canon, but I will say that in this chapter, I've taken full advantage of the fact this is an AU and changed the outcomes of certain storylines.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**The Lady in Black**

**Chapter Four**

Dame Nellie's arrival to Downton brought forth a number of changes that Mary had never anticipated upon. The singer dined with them at dinner before performing a small concert. Mary, a singer herself (though not nearly as skilled, she would grudgingly admit), was entranced by the music. Some of the songs were so haunting and sad that it reminded her of everything she had lost again... and her discontentment was only exacerbated by the fact she felt Tony's eyes lingering on her the whole time.

Feigning a headache, Mary went to bed early to stop herself from potentially being cornered into a flirtatious conversation with Tony, eager to speak to Anna and vent her frustrations. She always knew what to say... which is why Mary was simultaneously surprised and disheartened when Mrs. Hughes was the one come after Mary rang the bell. "Where's Anna?"

"She isn't feeling well tonight, milady," said Mrs. Hughes, smiling even as she delivered the bad news. "I hope you don't mind."

Mary shook her head. "No, of course not. Poor Anna." Her problems didn't seem nearly as bad now— probably because they could hardly be considered problems. In a way, Mary was glad Anna wasn't here to listen to her wingeing on about Tony and her conflicted feelings towards him. "I hope she recovers soon."

"I'm sure she will feel right as rain soon enough."

But the next day, when Anna arrived to her room, Mary was taken aback. "Anna! My goodness, what's happened?" Her maid, her dear friend for so many years, was missing her sunny smile, looking morose. One eye was purple and swollen, a jagged cut on top of her head. It wasn't fresh— Mary assumed it had at least a night to heal— but it looked exceptionally painful.

"I wasn't feeling well last night, milady," Anna stated tonelessly, eyes downcast. "I had a headache, so I went down during the concert for some medicine and— and I must have fainted and hit my head on the way down."

"You poor thing," Mary said, still eyeing the cut on Anna's forehead. She wasn't about to dispute her story, for she hardly doubted Bates would ever bring harm to his wife, but something about her story wasn't adding up. "Should I send for Dr. Clarkson?"

"No!" The exclamation erupted from Anna and even she looked surprised by the violence of her reaction. "No," she repeated, quieter this time, "It's not all that bad. I can see to it myself."

Mary was wary but said, "Alright... but only if you are sure."

"I am."

They didn't speak of it the rest of the morning, even though Mary could tell by the small winces Anna made periodically that she was in pain. She tried to encourage Anna to have a lie down for the rest of the morning, but she steadfastly refused and Mary wasn't able to see how she could really force her.

Much to Mary's surprise, Branson was silent during their drive. While she wouldn't have said he was always chirping away, he usually engaged fully in their conversations. Mary couldn't help but feel put out by his lack of responses as she asked him about the concert and regaled him about her ride with Tony. She was startled when he asked, "So you've given more thought to whether or not you like him?"

Mary nodded. Finally— they were getting somewhere! Those were the most words he had spoken in succession since she climbed into the car. "He's... well, he's a perfect gentleman but I don't think I'm quite ready for what he wants. Not yet." It was far too soon to consider him a romantic prospect— and he needed to stop being so eager— but Mary could easily see it as a _maybe_ in the distant future... that is, unless Miss Lane Fox was in the picture. Then he would be decidedly be out. "But I think he will make himself a good friend and he's the sort of man Mama and Papa want for me," she said with a sigh. "Maybe someday, but not now."

Mary was unprepared for Branson saying, "With all due respect, milady, but I think it would be best if you were to cut your losses with him as soon as you can."

Her head snapped up. "I beg your pardon?" She could not possibly have heard him correctly.

"Lord Gillingham isn't the right man for you."

Now she knew that she must be hearing things— that, or Branson had gone completely mad. "Last I checked, your job to drive the car, _not_ offer me romantic advice!" Mary exclaimed hotly. "Who I am interested in is none of your business!"

His gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel. There was a long pause, leading Mary to be convinced that maybe he would remain silent just as he said, "He's not a good man."

"Forgive me, but I don't believe you are as well acquainted with Lord Gillingham as I am!" He was absolutely infuriating! What right did he have to act this way?

"Maybe not," Branson relented, "but you can tell a lot about a man by the people they employ."

Mary rolled her eyes. Suddenly this was making more sense. "Well, I'm sorry if you've had a disagreement with Lord Gillingham's man, but I'm certain his political views or whatever it was you argued about don't reflect on the character of a man my father deemed worthy enough to stay in our home!"

Branson let out a scoff. "I don't know what Mr. Green's politics are, but I know when it comes to morality and an understanding of the law, we don't see eye to eye."

It took Mary by surprise. _An understanding of the law_... had Tony's valet done something illegal? She might have asked, but as soon as they pulled up in front of the house, Branson said, "Forgive me, Lady Mary, but if you want to choose someone to fill Mr. Crawley's shoes, you had better make sure he is a good man— for your sake and Master George's."

The mere mention of Matthew and her son caused Mary to gasp slightly. Tony's valet's crime was forgotten in wake of Mary's unmitigated rage. When Branson opened the door for her, she did not thank him— she didn't even spare him a second look before stomping into the house.

* * *

Mary felt Tony's eyes on her as she stirred her tea in the library, torn between being flattered and uncomfortable. It was nice to be reminded again that she was a young, attractive woman, especially by a young, attractive man... but she wasn't fully convinced Tony was the man to be reminding her of that. With his possible pending engagement and the all too recent passing of Matthew, it seemed inappropriate. She liked his company, she really did, it was increasingly obvious he didn't have purely friendly intentions. It was almost like Mr. Pamuk all over again, leering at her across the room and flirting with her over dinner...

Then there was the issue of his valet. Branson had almost insinuated he may have broken the law... or at least tried to. Had he attempted to steal something? Maybe she ought to at least mention something about it to Tony, if for nothing else than to make sure he wasn't robbed in the middle of the night.

Yes, Mary thought, as Tony began advancing towards her from across the room, her spoon scraping against the grainy lumps of sugar at the bottom of her cup that had yet to dissolve, she might just tell him.

But any conversation that might have taken place between them was interrupted by Carson throwing the door open, red faced and panting. "My apologies, my Lord, for this intrusion," he said between gasps, "but there's been a situation downstairs— Dr. Clarkson is already on his way—"

"What do you mean a situation?" Papa demanded, leaving Mama's side to stride across the room. He wasn't angry, merely concerned. "Is everyone alright?"

Mary thought of Anna.

Carson shook his head. "Mrs. Hughes went out into the yard and found Mr. Branson and Mr. Green fighting one another. Mr. Bates, Mr. Barrow, and I had to pull them apart—"

Mary gasped when he said Branson's name, inadvertently jostling her tea cup as she did so and spilling a drop onto her lap. The liquid seeped through the material of her black dress, but Mary neither noticed nor cared. Her fight with him that morning was all but forgotten. "Are they alright?" She asked, but what she really meant was _Is he alright?_

"It's hard to say," Carson said, looking shaken. "There— there was a lot of blood," he revealed, much to Mary's horror. "I sent Mr. Branson to his cottage. Mrs. Hughes is tending to him now and Mr. Green is in the servant's hall."

"I must to see him." Tony was already heading to the door as he spoke, looking very determined.

"I'll come with you," Mary said, needing to know how bad it was— and needing to know if he would be alright. She sat her teacup down and followed him and Papa out of the room.

"Do you know what the fight was about?" Papa asked as they approached the door to the servant's stairwell.

Mary could barely make Carson out as they began to climb down the stairs in a queue, but she saw the top of his grey head shake back and forth. "Neither of them will say— though I suspect that might be because they are both in a great deal of pain."

"Well, I for one don't give a damn _what_ it was about!" Tony exclaimed as they reach the first landing, causing Mary's eyes to widen at both his loudness and hostility. "My valet's been attacked!"

"We don't know who instigated it, my Lord, but it's clear both parties were equally involved," Carson said. Mary felt a rush of gratitude towards him.

Tony didn't seem to hear a word he said. "Well, if it was your chauffeur, Lord Grantham, then I'm afraid that I'll encourage Green to press charges."

Papa and turned around, looking at Tony with incredulity. Before he could say anything, Mary injected herself into the conversation. "Tony, I understand you are upset, but Branson has been with our family for years and this sort of behavior is not at all in his character. If he has— that is, if he was in fact the one to instigate this—" as Mary feared he might have been, given his uncharacteristic rancor that morning, "—I doubt it was unprovoked."

"Even so," Tony said, agitated as they reach the last few steps, Papa and Carson blazing forth into the servant's hall and leaving the two of them behind. "Provoked or not, it's no excuse. Besides, he's Irish, isn't he? They're known for their tempers," he informed her.

Mary stared at him in horror, wondering where the kind gentleman who went riding with her had gone. Clearly, yesterday had only granted her a glimpse of one side of Tony Gillingham; this morning was offering a rather different view, one she didn't much like. She might have been ignorant of Mr. Green's crime, but she certainly understood now what Branson meant in the car that morning.

And she figured he deserved an apology.

"Branson is rather a pacifist, actually," she told Tony cooly, injecting as much coldness into her stare as possible. Mary watched as clarity set in and Tony slowly came to realize he had rather misstepped, if he had ever wanted to win her hand. "And I find making generalizations is only something foolish people do."

Tony looked as if he were ready to apologize but Mary ignored him, storming forth and entering the servant's hall to survey the damage for herself.

Carson warned them about the blood but Mary was astonished by how much was smeared across Green's face. He was laid atop a bench in the servant's hall, staring up at the ceiling. Thomas was already kneeling down by his side while James looked on, simultaneously horrified and fascinated. "Your nose is broken," said Thomas with authority. It was then Mary remembered he had been a medic during the war. A part of her wondered what Sybil's role would be in this proceeding if she were her. Knowing her, she wouldn't be content to stand on the sidelines. "But I don't think there's any other damage, apart from the superficial wounds."

Green groaned in response. As Daisy ran into the hall with a bowl of water and a cloth from the kitchen, Mary noticed Anna and Bates huddled near the door leading out to the yard, the former looking at the scene with abject apathy. No concern, no horror, not even revulsion at the blood. Her eyes were blank, lacking any trace of the Anna Mary knew so well.

"Daisy, clean the blood off his face," instructed Thomas, rising to his feet. " _Gently_ , and stay clear of the nose. I'll go see to Mr. Branson now."

" _Thank you_ , Mr. Barrow, but Dr. Clarkson is already on his way," Carson intoned. "I'm sure he will survive until then." The under butler looked disgruntled before pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and walking to the rocking chair in the corner. Papa pulled Carson aside, speaking lowly as Tony assumed Thomas's former stance to kneel down and question Green. Mary took the opportunity to slip out the back door, passing by Anna and Bates and overhearing their hushed conversation as she did so. Neither of them seemed to even notice her, despite her close proximity.

"I just can't understand why Mr. Branson would do such a thing," Bates said, still looking at Green. "Can you?"

"No. No, I don't." There was no emotion in her voice as she walked away from her husband, oblivious to the way he stared after her retreating figure forlornly.

Mary stepped into the yard, avoiding the small yet concerning spot on the ground that was slick with blood. Considering Branson was able to make it back to his cottage with only the help of Mrs. Hughes and the fact the main crowd was gathered around Green, Mary was hopeful Branson's injuries weren't nearly as severe.

It was funny, Mary thought, as she approached the chauffeur's cottage, how she had never once stepped foot into the dwelling. Considering Branson had been occupying the space for almost a decade, maybe it wasn't so shocking, but it still struck Mary as strange, since she had acquainted herself with nearly every other part on the grounds of this estate. She stood on the small porch, unsure of herself. Then, with a sigh and an internal reminder that she had every right, as a partial owner of the estate, to be there _,_ Mary knocked thrice on the door.

At first there was nothing. Mary was beginning to think she ought to go back when the door opened up, revealing the housekeeper. "Lady Mary!" She cried out with surprise. "What a surprise! I thought you might have been Dr. Clarkson!"

"I'm afraid not, but I gather he is on his way. Carson informed us of what happened and I thought I would try to be of assistance as best as I can," replied Mary, trying to come up with a legitimate reason for being here, realizing only then how irregular it was for her to appear at the door of a servant. "I can sit here until Dr. Clarkson comes and help him while you assist Carson back at the house."

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips into a thin line. "I don't wish to be impertinent, milady, but do you think it's appropriate?"

The truth was that it probably wasn't and Papa would no doubt be scandalized if he learned she was here alone with Branson, but Mary didn't care. She could come up with some excuse later on to defend herself... one that preferably didn't allude to a burgeoning friendship with the chauffeur. The last thing she wanted to do after being abominably rude to him to have him fired because her father felt it inappropriate. "Certainly. I may not be up to Lady Sybil's level, but I remember enough of nursing from the war."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, fears clearly alleviated. "Very well, milady." She Joe es the door wider, allowing Mary to step into the cottage. "Mr. Branson," she called out, "you've a visitor!"

Mary surveyed the modest home, studying it carefully. There was a wall facing her immediately, with several hooks. A black coat hung on one, along with his green chauffeur's jacket, and various hats. She turned to her right, following Mrs. Hughes into a space that was about the size of her bedroom that contained the kitchen, a table with a single wooden chair sitting near it, and a sort of living room. There were two doors off to the left, with one slightly ajar— the bathroom and bedroom, Mary presumed, her suspicions proved correct when Mrs. Hughes opened the one door wider.

When she entered the room, Mary was pleased to see that injuries did not seem to be as serious. Branson was propped up in his bed against the headboard, shirtless with a (she assumed, based on the rag he was pressing against it) a split lower lip. There was a chair, probably from the table in the kitchen, beside his bed where Mrs. Hughes must have been sitting. He only seemed moderately surprised by her appearance.

"I hope you don't mind," Mary found herself saying, mouth dry and heart beating erratically inside her chest. This wasn't a situation she ever thought she would find herself in: not only just the fact she was visiting him in his cottage, but also the fact she never counted on seeing him in such a state of undress. She couldn't even remember seeing him without his jacket on. To say this was a drastic change was an understatement. "I just— well, I remembered my days from the war and I thought I might be of assistance whilst Mrs. Hughes helps up at the house."

Branson shook his head. "I don't mind at all," he said around his rag. He removed it and Mary was pleased it wasn't as frightful as a sight as she initially feared. "Thank you, milady. That's very kind of you to offer."

"I trust you are in good hands, so I'll take my leave now," said Mrs. Hughes, giving him a warm smile. "Remember, Mr. Branson, to _rest_ ," she told him, sternly yet warmly, almost like a mother, before leaving.

When Mary heard the front door close to the cottage, she hesitantly took her place at the chair next to his bed. It felt strangely intimate. Now that she was closer, she could see what looked like the beginnings of bruising near his ribs. It was then that Mary was promptly reminded of the ordeal he had been through. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been more comfortable," he admitted, shifting one of his pillows around as best he could. Mary, realizing that it was causing him pain, reached out and did it for him. Her eyes focused on the white edges of the pillow until she drew away, letting her eyes flicker to his. Branson was staring at her with amazement before saying, "Thank you."

"I'm sorry," she blurted out.

Branson shook his head. "It's fine. It isn't your fault—"

"Not about your injuries— though I am sorry about those, too. I'm sorry that I was so rude to you this morning." He met her eye and for once, Mary felt as if they were on the same playing field. It was rare that they spoke like this, face to face and at the same level. "I have come to realize that you were right about Lord Gillingham. He's... well, he's not as good of a man as I once thought." There was no need to repeat his words to Branson. "And even though I don't know what his valet did, I'm sure he thoroughly deserved to have his nose broken."

Branson laughed at that but winced, his hand coming up to rest on his chest. Mary noticed his knuckles seemed bruised as well. Mary wanted to apologize again. "Well, I forgive you." Mary didn't realize how good it would feel to hear him say that. "Did I really break his nose?" He asked, curious.

"Thomas says you did," Mary informed him.

That got a smile out of him. "I didn't mean to do it. I don't like violence, under most circumstances... but I can't say as I'm sorry."

Mary allowed herself to feel pleased at his more cheerful spirits before asking, "What happened with you and Green? I mean before the fight." Branson simply stared at her, so she further elaborated, "Only you seemed to insinuate he had done something illegal. Did... did you catch him doing something he shouldn't?"

Branson was silent for a moment, still looking at her. He appeared conflicted. Mary wondered if he would ever respond when he finally said, "No. No, I didn't. But I— I caught him attempting to do something. I managed to stop him, but..." he trailed off, and Mary could read his thoughts by the pleading look in his eye: _Don't make me say anymore._

The dots connect all at once. Mary felt sick to her stomach. She thought about Mrs. Hughes dressing her, the injuries marring Anna's face, and her lack of concern over Green and the blood. "Does it— does it have anything to do with Anna?" If that man had harmed her in any way, Mary vowed to throw him out herself.

Branson hesitated, reluctant. "Like I said, I can't tell you, milady."

It wasn't a confirmation nor a denial but it was all Mary needed. She didn't need to know the specifics— what ever happened, it was bad enough. Her blood simmered beneath her skin. She only wished now that she could have relished at the sight of Green's injuries more before coming to the cottage. "Of course. I shouldn't have asked." She paused as she tried to regain control of her emotions. "How did it start? The fight, I mean."

"I punched him." Mary wasn't prepared for the bluntness of his response, nor the laughter she had to stifle. Branson seemed to sense it, grinning until he winced, applying the rag back to his lip. "I was in the yard and he came out— he just looked so smug and he started gloating... and I knew that he didn't feel any remorse for— for what he tried to do, so I punched him." He shifted again and Mary leaned forward to adjust his pillow. "Will I be sacked, then?"

"Of course not," Mary replied immediately. "I won't allow it."

He twisted his head up. " _You_ won't allow it?"

"You've been a loyal employee for many years now," she told him. "And in all that time you've never given us any problems. Besides," she added, "I'm sure that if were aware of all the details, I would have punched him, too."

Branson laughed at her unladylike pronouncement. "And here it was because I thought you might like me," he said, laughing again, less pained this time.

"I do like you." The words startled them both. She hasn't counted on admitting something so personal... though Mary supposed she hadn't realized until today just how much she did like him. Knowing the fight had been for the honor of her beloved maid only seemed to make her esteem for him increase. Branson tried to meet her eyes while she steadfastly forced her gaze down at the sheets on his bed. "You're... you're a good driver."

Before either of them could say anything else, there was a frantic, insistent knocking at the door. "Maybe that's Dr. Clarkson," said Mary, rising to her feet. She was relieved to get away for a moment, still wondering what possessed her to disclose her fondness for Branson.

It wasn't Dr. Clarkson. A blonde woman with a round face and piercing eyes stood on the porch, looking determined. She wore a black uniform... Mary realized belatedly that this must have been the maid who replaced O'Brien. Was she a friend of Branson's? Nonetheless, friend or not, it did seem strange and improper that she was appearing at his home.

Before Mary could ask, the woman said, "I need to speak to Mr. Branson. _Urgently_."

"May I ask what about?" Mary asked, as politely as possible, though there was something about her that rubbed Mary the wrong way.

"It's personal," she said, jutting her jaw out.

"Then I'm afraid it will have to wait," said Mary. "Mr. Branson isn't well and needs to rest until Dr. Clarkson arrives."

Mary was stunned when the maid tried to shove past her. Mary swung the door so that it was only open a crack, letting it hit the other woman, before leaning all her weight against it. The woman was disgruntled yet undeterred. "If you leave, I'll be gone in a few minutes."

Mary realized now why she disliked the woman— she didn't understand the meaning of the word _No._ "Are you forgetting who I am?" Mary asked, in a voice she knew to be lofty and superior. "If you want to keep your job, I suggest you go back to the house and wait until Mr. Branson is better before visiting him." She took more satisfaction than she ought to have from the maid's murderous scowl before slamming the door shut. For good measure, she locked it as well, not wholly convinced the woman wouldn't try to break in.

"It wasn't Clarkson, I'm afraid," Mary told Branson as she reentered his room.

"I know," he said, wearing a curious expression on his face. "I could hear." _Of course he did_ , thought Mary. "Thank you. For not letting her in," he clarified. He did sound grateful.

"You've never mentioned her before in your stories... I don't even think I know her name," Mary observed, taking her seat once more. "Is she a friend?"

"Her name is Edna. Miss Braithwaite, that is," Branson hurriedly corrected himself. "And... no. Not exactly."

He seemed shaken, disturbed. Mary sensed he was reluctant to speak about it... but still, she couldn't help but wonder. "Do you know why she might have wanted to speak to you?"

"I am afraid I might." There was no humor in his voice, none of that easiness from before.

Mary bit her lip. She wanted to know, so badly... but she understood that it wasn't her place. She had her secrets and it was obvious Branson had his. "I can tell we aren't quite close enough yet for you to tell me what is the matter," she said lowly, examining her hands, which were now folded on her lap. "But you ought to speak to somebody about it, because I can tell it's troubling you."

Branson's parted in astonishment. "Thank you, milady. I'll bear that in mind."


End file.
